


The Bride's Choice

by cortchuzska



Series: Of suns and roses [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Oberyn opposes his niece's marriages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dragonspawn

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sequidille](https://archiveofourown.org/works/451748) by [seraph7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraph7/pseuds/seraph7). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Oberyn opposes his niece's arranged marriage to Viserys Targaryen.

“Why not?”

Their sister's shadow stood between them. Never talk, never utter her name: too precious, too sullied. Always remember.

He smirked. “I don't believe in arranged marriages.”

“You don't believe in marriage, Oberyn.”

“Just because a Dorne Princess had a fetish for silver haired, pale skinned and purple eyed pretty boys a century ago, I can't see why we have to marry every single Martell girl to a Targaryen.”

“Princess Myriah was not the only Martell with a thing for purple eyed, silver haired boys. If I'm not mistaken, the last one was not even a girl.”

“That's why I can say: brother, keep Arianne away from them, and from their madness. It's because I know them so well: the wisest one is as mad as a march hare. Why don't you let her choose, for a change?”

“She is too young to choose.”

“She is too young to marry. When she'll grow up, she will be wise enough to choose a better husband than Viserys Targaryen.”

“He can claim the Iron Throne.”

“Come on, Doran, the boy cannot claim ownership of his own boots! For a seat at Mopatises' rich table he'll end up married to any of magister Illyrio's fat daughters, begetting his chubby grandchildren. A Targaryen Prince would nicely add to the magister's dragon eggs collection, and for such a mild price... no doubt Illiryo has a knack for business. If Viserys is smart enough, under his wings he'll become a wealthy merchant, a productive member of the community, a hard-working Free Citizen who wouldn't buy the Iron Throne for half its price in ore.”

“Robert is not the lawful king, and we must wrest the Throne from him. Are you afraid of the Baratheons' armies?”

“It's not the Baratheons' fury I fear, even if Robert is a great warrior, and his brother Stannis an even better commander: they are nothing but puppets in the Lannisters' hands. They didn't fight a single battle, yet they won, and are the Seven Kingdoms actual rulers, just they deemed appearing not politic. Why on earth the Kingslayer would have got his arse – a most lovely one, for Jaime was quite a hottie – off the Iron Throne? His father's orders, of course. Glorious Cersei warming his bed, valiant Jaime by his side, and shrewd Lord Tywin firmly holding the threads; poor Robert can't have a piss without Lann daddy knowing. I'll wager when Cersei's children will be of proper age, the Lannisters will get rid of him somehow – a tourney accident, in all likelihood: the man is unhealthily crazy for melees. If you want a daughter on the Iron Throne, you'd better marry Arianne to little Joffrey. Doran, how could you forget what happened back then?”

“Dorne must not forget. Dorne can not forget. Dorne will not forget. What I want, is to kick the Lannisters' pretty asses off the Iron Throne – forever, and to be never heard of thereafter.”

\--o--

_Prince Oberyn Martell signed for Dorne, with the Sealord of Braavos as witness... Viserys is to take Prince Doran’s daughter Arianne for his queen._


	2. Lemon Blossom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn vouches for Daemon Sand, though not exactly as a husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated adding a few lines: I felt the need to give Doran the last word.

It was high time his brother took up his responsibilities as a father, and took in his daughter was no more a child; even if he could claim some points to his credit, he would not let pass his inattentive overlooking any longer. He had never suffered from being left by a woman before and all, but he had been already cosseted enough, and by now he should have recovered from a bad break-up any reasoned man should have seen coming from afar.

Arianne was shorter than Sarella so it was easy to forget she was not a little girl, and her father had not much time left to care for her: being the obdurate workaholic he was, Doran overworked more than usual to drown his grief, instead of taking a paramour as he had timely suggested, going as far as to seek out for some of the most _boring_ acquaintances among his chance encounters. Be it as it may, since Mellario was in Norvos not to come back to Sunspear ever again, and his brother seemed only vaguely aware of his daughter's whereabouts, Oberyn guessed now it fell on him to broach the Prince of Dorne, and bring up the tidings with him.

Doran listened intently at his detailed report, nailed to his chair.

“Ellaria overheard Tyene laughing about Drey turning out to be a lemon.” He took one from a platter on the desk by which he was lounging, nibbled at it, and closed his speech munching. “My dragons are on Daemon. I wouldn't be much surprised if he would be the one to pluck Arianne's first flower.”

The Prince of Dorne looked at him aghast, occasionally remembering to breathe.

“Doran, please don't pitch a fit and don't get mad at my squire. ”

“She is my daughter, a Martell princess, and the heir to Dorne!”

“While he is bastard-born? Never been a problem. Arianne has always been getting along famously with Sands.”

“You can't mean it.”

“Trust me, I mostly know what's going on in my squires' bedrolls.”

“Because it's mostly _you_.”

“This time, the vintage pick is by rights hers. I know my place, I'm not used to overstep, and I'll let the heir to Dorne have her due.”

Oberyn waited almost patiently for him to regain his composure, while the Prince of Dorne wriggled uncomfortably on his seat as he were sitting into a snake pit, till at last he tried to stifle a panicked moan.

“Come on, Doran, don't be so fussy! Who would you rather have? Daemon is my own squire, and I assure you there is nothing wrong about him. Some lad _must_ be, and who better than a well known one to soothe your fretfulness?”

By all accounts, it should have; but when it came down to it, someone altogether _unbeknown_ to Oberyn would have been a safer option, and his endorsement felt even worse, like angry birds fluttering in his stomach pit. Daemon Sand was by far too close to his brother to even keep a faint semblance of safety about him: Oberyn had always carefully picked his squires, and taken exceedingly good care of them and of every facet of their training.

“Arianne is but ten-and-four...” The Prince of Dorne faintly protested.

“So is he. Can't you remember how is it like? When I was...”

He was about to remind he had already had a daughter when he was around his niece's age, but somehow Oberyn doubted it would do much to calm his brother, so he kept the thought to himself.

His brother burst out. “You were not the heir to Dorne, nor were you to wed a Targaryen.”

“As you or our sister were, while I was not, so no one gave a fig about me, since I was just the third? Thank you for reminding me of that, Doran.”

“Poor thing! You felt like a lonely waif, I wonder? Be assured mother and me despaired of you – sometimes I still do, even if after almost twenty years a man grown resigned – enough to have our lives shortened.”

The Seven be blessed for Elia's frailty: she was so close to Oberyn that for a certainty she would have tried to emulate her younger sibling, and joined him in his deeds.

“You are going to crack Arianne putting too much pressure on her. She is too young to mind serious political stuff. Since your Princess will have to wed, she'd better have some jolly good time before.”

“Can't you see the diplomatic outcome of her before marriage... Dalliances.” Doran at last resolved to gasp out.

“Do you assume it would be politically wiser _after_? I fear Westerosi nuptial contracts don't abide by Rhoynar law nor do they allow much for paramours. Matters would take a different turn, if we were to wed her in Sunspear, since in Dorne our rules should be applied. If only dragons were more pliant on the issue...” He added wryly. “Had our sister married here, Rhaegar could have gotten smoothly away with his affair with Lyanna Stark.”

Doran gloomily reviewed all the possible scenarios, none of which appealed him in the least, and mopped at his brow.

“Cheer up, brother. There are no accounts of living dragons, to my knowledge.”

Doran swallowed a sigh, and tentatively put forth. “Arianne quite liked it, when she visited Tyene's mother with her cousins.”

“Are you planning to have her locked away in a Septry?” Oberyn indignantly furrowed his brow.

The Prince of Dorne insisted unconvincingly. “Someplace safe.”

“Be reasonable. It's unconscionable to presume she will wait for a distant marriage, and keep true to a betrothed she doesn't know, when she does not even know she is betrothed.”

Tyene's living evidence attested a Septry was unfortunately not safe enough, when hot-blooded Martells were involved; and Arianne, despite being a princess, had too much in common with the Sand Snakes.

Doran heard himself asking. “What course should I better steer, in your opinion?”

“There is nothing you can do.” Oberyn chortled. “Daemon can't be her consort; and you would do well to do nothing at all, for if you did, he could even feel spurred by the the Prince of Dorne's wrath and in such plight he would be bold enough to ask for her hand; then _you_ would be in some trouble to refuse. Still he is not worthless, and could serve her otherwise.”

Doran Martell would have never dreamed in his worst nightmares he could seek for brother's advises about his daughter on _that_ matter, let alone heed him. He balked at the notion. That wasn't going to happen. No way. Never.

When it happened, though, he did.

_“The Bastard of Godsgrace had my maidenhead when we were both fourteen. Do you know what my father did when he learned of it?” ... “Nothing.”_

\--o--

“What's wrong, Doran?” 

“Daemon asked for Arianne's hand.” He replied glumly.

“What did you do, pray tell? For I told you...”

“Nothing: nothing at all. You are the one good at doing things. Yet he proposed, for all your advises.”

“The lad has gall.” Oberyn said, somewhat proudly.

“He has.” Doran lashed out. “And whose fault is it?”

Oberyn opened his arms as to yield. “Fine. I am the one good at doing things: what would you have me do?”

“Daemon.”

_He was a boy then, and bastard born, no fit consort for a princess of Dorne_


	3. Baelor the Blessed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Oberyn opposes his niece's betrothal to Renly Baratheon.

“May I have a word, brother?” Doran stared at him.

Oberyn looked him back slightly baffled. His demeanour had been flawless, even by Doran's demanding standards, since the arrival of the Stormlands envoys – led by Lord Baratheon, King Robert's youngest brother, as the Prince of Dorne himself had so wearisomely overstated, until at his brother's last “Please, just don't be the likes of yourself.” he had finally snapped “Pray tell, whose likes should I be? Baelor the Blessed?”

He had mostly kept silent, mimicked smiles, and yawned. He admitted peeking at him – watching him _intently_ , truth be told – but who hadn't? Renly Baratheon was a stunning as well as strapping whirlwind of blue eyes, black hair, and youth.

He was breaking his fast with a cold mutton haunch snatched from Old Palace kitchens; if the Prince of Dorne objected to him being late after a night spent at the Shadow City - only about the third in a fortnight, mind you, the Stormlanders had kept him busy - a lengthy tour beyond the Narrow Sea was under way. His girls would have liked to see a little bit more of the world, and he had been too long in Dorne.

“Haven't you seen how _she_ is looking at him? How _she_ is behaving? I wish her mother were still here -”

“She is not, and you have been too busy running current affairs lately. No, I'm mistaken, you have _always_ been too busy to care.” Oberyn replied curtly. For unknown reasons, after Mellario left for Norvos, Doran held him accountable for Arianne; actually, looking blandly after his brother's daughter did not much bother him, who already had six – almost seven – of his own.

“In case you didn't notice, Arianne has been eyeing up every half good-looking lad, and behaving accordingly, for quite some time now; and he is rather flashy, for a Northerner. Tyene is just the same; they are about that age.”

He went back chopping his mutton.

“But he is Renly Baratheon.”

Oberyn gave a chafed shrug. Another of his brother's fretfulness fits.

“What of it? He is around that age as well.” He stated airily. “That's just regular: I've seen other daughters going through that, and there is nothing to worry about.”

“Nymeria has never been that interested in boys.”

“The Lady Nym has never been interested in much else than the Fowler twins. I don't happen to see the point in such single-minded fidelity, but each to his own.”

“Obara either shied away or kicked.”

“Often both. Overly selective at first, you might even say; but if she did so, they were not right for her. Tyene and Arianne are all right; maybe it's just I have already seen enough of it.”

Oberyn hoped that would put an end to the growing-up-daughters talk; but Doran went doggedly on.

“What if Arianne beds him -”

“If Tyene couldn't cobble up something so harmless as a trivial moon tea, I would have already disowned her.” Oberyn huffed unconcerned. Why on earth had Doran always to kick up a fuss about _everything_?

“You'd better fret about Sunspear court cooks. If you don’t mind my saying, in this herbs and garlic crust some more cloves and dragon peppers could serve.” The haunch lacked the fiery bite he liked.

“I gave orders. Hot spices are too hot to our guests.” Doran waved a dismissive hand.

“I'm not doubting your beloved daughter's skills, Oberyn. What if Arianne beds him,” the Prince of Dorne repeated, and hissed after a worried pause, “And she coaxes a marriage proposal out of him?”

The sooner they got rid of Renly Baratheon, the better. The King’s kid brother was driving Doran into a frenzy, and that was no small feat; Oberyn would gladly have his Stormlands retinue skewered and roasted in the Red Sands, and a decent meal was getting increasingly hard to come by.

“I'm told fathers are usually troubled by bedding _before_ and _not_ wedding afterwards.” Oberyn observed in a mildly surprised tone, holding halfway a chunk of meat on his knife.

“I'm no usual father.” Doran snarled. “I'm the Prince of Dorne.”

“Sorry, my Prince, I meant no offence. Take my word, clasping a cloak before a Septon is not the highest concern to kids their age.”

Gods be good, had Doran ever been that age?

“Arianne is no common wench: why should be she so purposefully flirting with _him_?” Doran wagged his head and glared at Oberyn's outrageous naivete. “The heiress of Dorne knows all too well what she is up to with the Stormlands Lord.”

“If he is anything like his biggest brother, I wouldn't worry him harbouring honourable intentions.”

“What if he instead -”

“Took after Stannis, Lord of Stone-cold? If cajoling him was even remotely possible, I seriously doubt a clumsy girl's green charms and cumbersome efforts could ever accomplish that. Anyway, by now they are just ogling at each other; and before they mess around, and she entice him into marriage, and he proposes, and they wed, they have still a long way to go.”

“A way Arianne is all too willing to hasten taking steps two and three at a time, I fear.”

“Are you hinting at the frightening oddity he could propose even before they bed? Dreadful; Northern prigs will never learn manners. Have a seat, Doran. How do you like mutton?”

Oberyn poured himself a cup of red; it was ripe time his brother stopped talking nonsense and busied his jaw chewing instead... Doran plopped down, and guzzled it.

“You do not understand, Oberyn. How can I possibly _turn down_ his offer?” Doran gasped in agony. “Renly Baratheon is Lord of the Stormlands, and brother to the King!”

Oberyn was once more glad he had left the matter of their own marriages wholly up to his daughters. Arianne's one was giving the biggest headaches to him and his brother both.

“Any other Great House would be glad of your daughter's choice. I'm afraid he is arguably the best match in the Seven Kingdoms. Unmarried girls are such a nuisance...” He sneered grimly. “Betroth one to a Stormlands Lord, and she will elope with a harpist chance met at a tourney, don't _officially_ promise her, and she will try to marry a Stormlands Lord.”

Oberyn cast a disheartened glance at his trencher and pushed it aside. Anyway, it was too bland to his liking.

“Besides, the boy seems to me not overly responsive to Arianne's too open attempts; she still lacks subtlety, if I may. She will rather scare away a Northern prude.”

“You have been looking quite closely at him as well, I take.” Doran stared at him with expectancy.

“Arianne is not the only one with a keen eye on handsome boys, but I reached the age of discretion, and I'm not that blatantly obvious. ” Oberyn returned deceitfully innocent. “Yet, she is my only niece, and could be my liege lady, and I would rather not displease her.”

“But I'm your only brother, and your liege lord as well, and you will never displease me, will you?”

Oberyn lingered for a while a searching gaze on his brother, who grumbled at last. “A taste of unrequited love, at her age, will do her good.”

“Doran, are you by any chance suggesting _something_?” Oberyn wondered in a velvety voice.

“See to our noble guest entertainment.” He muttered. “I'm sure you understood.”

“Ever yours to command, brother. It could turn out quite entertaining, actually, but you are heartless.” Oberyn sighed. “I'm the very soul of obeisance, and the loyal liege in me yearned to hear his Prince entrusting him with the foremost mission of fucking his heiress's sweetheart, to turn her eligible husband into an ineligible one, and make him forget all that silliness about betrothing.”

\--o--

Doran Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne, opened wearily his brother's library door.

“Sarella, where is your father?”

She was reading at a desk below a shaded window, a half eaten apple by her side.

Sarella jabbed a dark finger toward the stacks behind her. “Down there.” She answered without raising her head. “Mind my longbow, uncle.”

When Sarella was engulfed in a book, not even a fire-breathing dragon could move her. Doran shuffled heavily on his aching joints. To top it all, his daughter’s rashness and Oberyn's unusual laziness, even his own legs were now grudging him obedience.

Doran found his brother browsing a shelf and addressed him with a resentful voice. “Oberyn, please, that is no time for idle study. Weren't you supposed to busy yourself with Lord Renly? Go hunting with him, or something along those lines?”

He glared at him over his shoulder. “Just what I'm doing.” He would not have Doran schooling him about such matters. His brother had presumably the worst approach _ever:_ stifling for a day, and then forgetting for moons: small wonder Mellario had left him.

Not to mention his snakelike quickness in decision making, worth of a sluggish viper, newly awakened from Long Winter sleep, because to Doran, soon often translated as within a fortnight, maybe, not counting nap time.

Oberyn stooped “There you are! Who would ever tell a Baratheon could have a taste for books?” , hoisted a huge tome, thudded it on the desk with a satisfied last tap. Its binding golden letters and rainbow coloured seven-pointed stars stated the book content was as ponderous as its outward appearance threatened.

“ _The Life of Baelor the Blessed_? Oberyn, what the Seven Hells are you up to?”

“You know nothing, Doran.” He favoured him with a smug smile. “That's a Lyseni transcript, custom made on my very specific instructions: not at all orthodox and utterly unholy. You'd better not show it to our Septon.”

House Martell Septon was not known for his strictness, but rather for his love of lavish services and finest Dornish wines; yet even he had standards.

He opened the front page. Baelor – a comely youth, pleasurably sinewy and not at all gaunt and haggard, as should be expected from fast and penances, but crude realism could be dull, and some artistic licence must needs be allowed – was standing in a flimsy and fittingly bulging loincloth against a lapis lazuli sky, even _bluer_ than proper Dornish sky, that beautifully highlighted his alabaster white flesh – the Targaryens were so queerly pale they looked alluringly _more_ naked than they actually were, as Oberyn himself could testify. His purple eyes rapt in ecstasy followed the reader, and his mouth slightly parted seemed to moan in agony. A snake coiled around his neck was flicking its tongue at the corner of his lips; some snakes were binding him rope-wise in their brightly coloured scales, and looked like glistening jewels sling on his body, while others one could hardly tell if they were biting him or licking garnet-red blood drops on his limbs. The following rendezvous with Prince Aemon the Dragonknight was even more stirring; Oberyn trusted Renly Baratheon would appreciate it.

“By the way, Sarella, have you lately seen _The Loves of Queen Nymeria_? It's missing.” He asked in almost stern voice. ” _That_ illuminated copy, I mean.”

“No, father.” She puffed. “Arianne borrowed it.”

“Oh... So what are you reading now?”

“Dunno.” She shrugged. “It has no title, and it is not recorded. Some dragons stuff.” She turned back at him. “Your library inventory is such a jumble... Seriously, father, we ought to have a look at it.”

“As soon as this stormy madness is over, sweetling. I promise.”

\--o--

_One year King Robert’s brother came to visit and she did her best to seduce him, but she was half a girl and Lord Renly seemed more bemused than inflamed by her overtures_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not plan adding any chapters, but after I read Sequidille I just couldn't help. Here I'm taking quite the opposite view: Doran trying to get Oberyn seducing Renly to prevent Arianne seducing him – providing for some more “grass and snake” play.


End file.
